


When Poodles Fly

by oshare_banchou



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Flirting, Friendship, Gen, Hugs, Humor, M/M, Skinship, Teasing, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8779849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oshare_banchou/pseuds/oshare_banchou
Summary: In which Makkachin is rather spry for his age, Victor does double duty as coach and Russian grandmother, and Yuuri can't catch a break (much less a good night's sleep).





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before episode 6.

     Yuuri’s summer hurtles by in a blur of workouts and conditioning, hours of edge exercises and footwork, countless repetitions of jumps and spins, and run-through after run-through both on the ice, where he hones the technique and natural musicality of his skating under Victor’s practiced eye, and off the ice, where Minako-sensei drills expressiveness and grace into every step and flourish.

     Yuuri has always found refuge in his skating, but now, thanks to Victor, it’s starting to feel like _home_. He find himself again in the hush of the rink before his music fills the silence, in the quiet thrill of hearing two pairs of skates glide over the ice in unison, in the exhilaration of finally nailing a difficult pass while Victor looks on, never missing a beat. He takes pride in the knowledge that this season’s programs are something unique they’re creating together.

     Victor is _his_ for the moment—though God only knows how long the moment will last—and Yuuri refuses to waste what could very well be his last chance. He has put in the work and weathered the hardships, but now is the time to make it all _mean_ something. When he looks back on this season, whatever the outcome, he doesn’t want to have a single regret. For his sake as well as Victor’s.

     So he steels himself for mental fatigue compounded by mounting pressure, now that Regionals are in the rearview mirror and the start of the Grand Prix circuit looms just on the horizon. He braces himself for the deep, unrelenting ache in his muscles and battered feet, grits his teeth and skates through the pain of swollen ankles and new bruises hammered right on top of the old ones. And this time, he does it all for love.

\- - -

     One evening, after a day at the rink and another hour at the ballet studio, Yuuri trudges home on autopilot, still ruminating on the quad Salchow that eluded him in practice. Victor and Minako trail behind him in markedly higher spirits, talking shop and swapping stories plucked from life on the world stage.

     When they reach Utopia Katsuki, Yuuri opens the front door to find the entryway deserted but far from quiet; judging by the sounds carrying from the dining room, the dinner rush is in full swing. “We’re home,” he announces wearily, not expecting a response.

     However, no sooner does he set foot inside than Makkachin comes barreling into the foyer, a blur of fur and ecstatic barks as he skids out of control on the hardwood, and takes a flying leap into Yuuri’s arms. The next thing Yuuri knows, he is flat on his back on the floor, the air knocked from his lungs and Makkachin licking his face with gusto. Yuuri tries to blink away the stars from his vision, but they simply transform into a dizzying circle of tiny poodles doing scratch spins. He wants to laugh, or cry, or maybe both, but then he hears Victor and Minako calling his name.

     They sound frantic—maybe they think he hit his head? But in reality, Yuuri is simply too exhausted to budge a muscle. He knows better than anyone that he hasn’t been in peak condition the past few days, but Makkachin’s hug to end all hugs drives home the point that even Yuuri’s limitless stamina isn’t immune to the effects of a string of long, sleepless nights.

     Still, as bad as it is to lie awake into the wee hours of the morning, Yuuri vastly prefers _not_ sleeping to the recurring nightmare that has plagued his dreams of late: He sees himself go down in a heap on the ice, over and over again, while Victor shakes his head in disappointment and hogs all the _katsudon_ and flirts with a flock of reporters and promises to quit playing coach and come back to skate next season because _let’s be honest, Yuuri was always a lost cause—_

     “Makkachin, let’s leave the throws to the pairs skaters, okay?” Victor says, and the sound of his voice is enough to pull Yuuri’s thoughts out of their unchecked tailspin. Makkachin gives a disappointed whine but obligingly scoots off Yuuri’s chest and settles for a spot on the floor beside him. After seeing Yuuri successfully ease himself up with help from Victor, Minako sets about gathering up the skating gear that went flying when he hit the deck.

     “Are you alright? Does it hurt anywhere?” Victor asks, gently gripping Yuuri’s shoulders, his eyes bright with concern.

     Yuuri is tempted to answer “everywhere” because that’s the honest truth, even if it’s not what Victor means. Instead, he shakes his head slowly and says, “No, I’m fine… Just a little dizzy,” but that answer apparently doesn’t pass muster, since Victor proceeds to check him twice over for new bumps or bruises anyway. Yuuri’s stomach does an odd little flip-flop when Victor’s calloused fingers stroke through his hair, but he chalks it up to lingering vertigo.

     “How many fingers am I holding up?”

     Yuuri figures he must look considerably dazed, given that Victor’s eyes are now peering directly into his own, close enough that Yuuri can see the slight flush dusting his cheekbones. Yuuri has never seen anything short of tasty local cuisine ruffle Victor’s cool composure, and he finds himself torn between wanting to see more and wishing he could press a rewind button for a do-over. On his next attempt, he’d be ready: He would catch Makkachin gracefully, and after being happily reunited with Victor, the three of them would frolic in slow motion through a meadow in some idyllic mountain foothills, just like in the movies…

     “How many?” Victor insists, looking increasingly worried at Yuuri’s delayed response.

     “…three?”

     Victor’s eyes narrow, and he leans in until there’s not much separating them save the frames of Yuuri’s glasses. Yuuri stares back like a deer caught in headlights, suddenly a lot less confident in his answer and turning redder by the second the longer Victor studies him at close range.

     After what feels like ages (if only it were, because then the Grand Prix would be nothing but a distant memory), Victor finally seems satisfied. “Good,” he announces with a nod, then promptly envelops Yuuri in a bear hug.

     Yuuri freezes up in shock, unable to think or feel anything over the sound of his heart hammering in his ears. Even after he thaws out enough to process the sight of Minako staring slack-jawed at them from her perch on the step, he realizes that Victor still hasn’t let go, which means there must be a sensible, wholesome, skating-related reason for why he has them tangled up in an embrace on the entryway floor.

     “Relax, Yuuri,” Victor whispers, and Yuuri does, unable to help himself, not when Victor’s breath is hot on his neck and his arms are pulling Yuuri in tight. Yuuri closes his eyes and breathes in deep, his nose buried in the soft wool of Victor’s jacket, and focuses on the mingled smells of leather and boot polish and the yuzu-scented soap from _their_ onsen. The sensation is equal parts familiar and surreal, but as he settles into the warmth and the captivating sound of another person’s heartbeat, he finds he can’t think of a better place in the world to catch up on lost sleep.

     It seems Victor has other plans, however, because he eventually draws back from the hug to look Yuuri in the eye again. Yuuri can’t put a finger on how much time has passed—enough that Minako has long since disappeared into the dining room, muttering something about needing a beer—but when he finally manages to focus half-lidded, drowsy eyes on Victor’s expression, what he sees instantly snaps him out of his reverie.

     “Yuuri,” Victor says, stretching out the syllables in a sing-song tone. “When were you planning to tell me that you haven’t been sleeping well lately?” He may be smiling, but it’s the same strained, hollow smile that Yuuri recognizes from the times Victor has caught him pushing through too many quads in practice.

     “It’s not that I was trying to keep it a secret,” Yuuri replies quietly. “It just…never came up.”

     “No?” Victor prompts, tilting his head to one side. “And why is that?”

     “…because I never told you,” Yuuri finishes the thought, fighting the urge to look away. He knows the reason why; he sees it play out night after night in his dreams. While Yuuri may be accustomed to putting on a brave face for the cameras, the stakes are higher than ever this time. Now it’s not only his career on the line, but Victor’s reputation as well.

     “It’s my problem. I should be able to manage _this_ , at least, if nothing else.” A few months ago, Yuuri would have kept the words bottled up inside, but now he’s desperate to get them out. “You’re my coach, Victor, and you’re going above and beyond already. It’s not your job to worry about something silly like—”

     Victor’s grip on Yuuri’s shoulders tightens until it’s almost painful. “I’m here for _you_ , Yuuri,” he interrupts, and Yuuri is struck speechless by the intensity of the emotion in his turquoise eyes. “Not for the Yuuri you think I want to see, or the Yuuri the rest of the world sees when you skate. I want the _real_ you.”

     Belatedly, Yuuri realizes that he should, perhaps, be shocked at the boldness of this statement. Coming from Victor, however, it somehow sounds like the most natural thing in the world. He is reminded of the day they watched the gulls on the shore, the wistfulness in Victor’s voice and the freedom of a fresh start, and marvels at how he could have missed something so obvious.

     “You’re strong, Yuuri, and it takes strength to know your weaknesses,” Victor continues. “At least that’s what Yakov always used to say—well, _yell_ , technically.” He breaks into a smile and laughs as he ruffles Makkachin’s ears. “Not that we ever listened, did we, Makkachin?”

     Makkachin barks in what can only be happy agreement and nuzzles his way between them to encourage Yuuri to pull his weight in the petting department. Yuuri obliges, wishing Vicchan could be there to join them.

     “How does it feel to be in your coach’s shoes?” Yuuri asks. He tries to imagine Victor as a teenager: not as the media darling and picture-perfect prodigy he knows so well from the stack of magazines and posters squirreled away in his room, but as a young artist brimming with natural talent and irrepressible charisma. It’s easy to see how a young Victor and a coach like Yakov might have clashed—innovative versus orthodox, experimental versus tried and true—while Victor filtered out what he found useful from his coach’s instructions and filed away the rest, repaying Yakov the difference and more with his skating.

     Victor glances up at him from under long lashes, and Yuuri barely has time to register the hint of mischief in his eyes before Victor throws his arms around Yuuri’s neck and pulls him into another hug.

     His lips tickle Yuuri’s ear as he whispers, “It feels good.”

     Yuuri laughs, suddenly more breathless than he was after Makkachin tackled him to the floor, but he slowly puts his arms around Victor in return. His face flushed and thoughts jumbled, he is saved the indignity of stuttering through a reply when he hears someone clear his throat in the doorway behind them.

     Yuuri springs back from Victor as if he were made of hot coals, upsetting Makkachin and landing sprawled on his ass, facing the door. He can hear Victor chuckling behind him as he climbs shakily to his feet to greet the newcomer—who turns out to be one of Utopia’s longtime customers and a man who has known Yuuri since he was born.

     “M-Matsuda-jiisan,” Yuuri squeaks, his throat dry as a bone. “Er… Please, come in.”

     “Oh, Yuuri, is that you?” the old man asks, resting a hand on one knee for support as he peers up at Yuuri through his spectacles.

     Matsuda looks from Yuuri to Victor and back, then startles them by breaking into a knee-slapping belly laugh. “For a minute, I thought I’d gone and wandered into the wrong kind of bathhouse!” he exclaims, guffawing at his own joke and giving Yuuri a hearty slap on the back that nearly bowls him over. “Don’t stop on my account! You kids should enjoy yourselves while you’re young. Try that stuff when you’re my age,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, “and all you’ll get for your trouble is a big fat hospital bill!”

     Yuuri smiles woodenly as he weighs the consequences of sprinting through the open door and never looking back. Meanwhile, Victor, who is laughing right along with Matsuda, lends the old man a hand getting out of his shoes and helps him inside. Matsuda thanks him and shuffles off to the onsen, which leaves Yuuri, Victor, and Makkachin alone in the entryway once more.

     “Goodnight, then,” Yuuri mumbles to Victor, all the wind knocked from his sails. If he was worn out before, he is downright exhausted now, busy nursing the growing suspicion that feeling like he’s been put through the emotional wringer has precious little to do with his practice regimen.

     He toes off his shoes and starts to teeter off like a zombie in the direction of his room to crash, but Victor grabs him by the shoulders and steers him toward the dining room instead, Makkachin at their heels.

     “First things first, we need to get you something to eat. You look like you’re about to collapse, and the panda eyes aren’t helping,” Victor helpfully informs him. “After dinner, we’ll have a nice soak in the onsen, followed by a relaxing massage. _Then_ you can sleep. Remember, you’re always welcome in my room.”

     Yuuri can’t begin to articulate the number of red flags Victor’s plan raises in his mind, but one word in particular sticks out like a sore thumb. “…what do you mean by ‘massage’?” he asks warily.

     “Just what it sounds like. A trainer back in Russia taught me some techniques I’ve always wanted to try,” Victor replies matter-of-factly. “You’re in desperate need of a good night’s sleep, and there’s no better way to de-stress and recharge.”

     “You mean you’ve never done it before?”

     “No, but there’s a first time for everything!”

     At that point, in a decision influenced in no way whatsoever by curiosity and a strange flutter of excitement, Yuuri officially declares himself Too Tired to Argue.


End file.
